Who Bagged the Bunny?
by Fiddler55
Summary: Would you believe the Easter virtual season episode? Steve and Jesse discover that chocolate can be dangerous, even fatal.
1. Crime Scene

Disclaimer: The characters of Mark Sloan, Steve Sloan, Amanda Bentley, Jesse Travis, Cheryl Banks and Captain Newman do not belong to me but to CBS, Viacom et al. All other individuals are once again the product of my own undisciplined imagination, and any dubious resemblance to any living person is totally unintentional. With regard to Fairweather's Finest and Choc-o-Fine, as far as I have been able to determine, no such products actually exist, which is probably a good thing.

I don't remember how I ended up with the Easter virtual season episode, but the title came spinning out of nowhere, and one thing just kind of led to another. Thanks to all the VS group who encouraged this sort of thing!

"Yuck," Steve Sloan commented, surveying their latest crime scene. The Easter Bunny Cottage at Benson's Department Store looked like a furious tornado had spun through it; decorations, toys and candy were scattered hither and thither, fat puffs of shredded cotton and bits of cellophane grass lay strewn in every direction. The cottage itself looked like it had attempted, unsuccessfully, to withstand several blows from a sledgehammer; its roof tilted crazily over the three surviving walls, which were pockmarked with holes. The fourth wall seemed to be missing – no, here it was, underneath the central display, which Steve doubted had been the original primary focus. He stepped forward gingerly, sliding on his gloves, reluctant to actually touch what he was seeing.

"You know, if I were a chocoholic, this would definitely make me reconsider," Cheryl remarked. She was squatting next to the loose wall and its grisly contents, poking it cautiously, an expression of distaste on her elegant face.

Unsure he could trust himself to contribute anything intelligent to the conversation just yet, Steve nodded, staring in sick fascination. The wall looked like it had been ripped from the cottage, but the violence of its removal was minor compared to what it held. There sat the largest Easter basket he had ever seen; easily the size of a vat, bulging with fake Easter eggs, candy and toys, wrapped in colored cellophane – and sprawled on top of the contents, inside the cellophane, a very large and very dead Easter bunny, its body as well as what could be seen of the face smeared with chocolate. He turned away in disgust and yelled for the photographer.

"Hey, Andy! Hurry up and get your pictures, will you?"

Unruffled, the police photographer wandered up with his camera and started in calmly. He was sucking on a lollipop and seemed totally unperturbed by the scene in front of him. Steve swallowed thickly, but managed to restrain any comment until the pictures were complete. Then he squatted down next to his partner, and they slowly began to pull at the cellophane around the corpse, loosening it only enough to fold it back so they could make a preliminary examination before the crime scene unit moved in.

Partially exposed, the bunny was even more of a ghastly sight. It was, of course, not a bunny, but a man, presumably Benson's seasonal employee, in a bunny suit. The costume head had been pushed back off of the victim's own, and the ears had been used as a gag, covering what looked like more chocolate as well as shreds of green cellophane grass sticking out of his mouth. He was kneeling in the basket, his hands bound behind him and secured to his ankles. His face was a nasty shade of purplish-white, the eyes bulging either in terror or from lack of air.

Cheryl took a deep breath. "Looks like he may have still been alive when he was – "

"Bagged?" Steve said wryly. "Yeah. And it does look like an execution." He turned to the store manager, who had just returned after making a hasty exit upon getting a good look at the body.

The manager thought for a minute. "We have – had – three Easter bunnies altogether. I'm not sure, but he looks like Howard Ragsdale." He stared at the basket, his hands trembling.

Cheryl rose and put her hand on his shoulder to calm him. "We're going to need his personnel file and any other information the store has for him, Mr. Wilson. Would you mind putting that together for us? We'll let you know if we need you to do anything else here." She watched as he left, obvious relief on his face, and turned back to her partner. "You're thinking mob, Steve?"

He made a face. "Could be. But it's a little out there for their usual style. I mean, a bullet would have sufficed." He stood, idly noticing a twinge of reluctance in one knee and as idly dismissing it, and turned to the CS unit waiting patiently. "All yours, guys. Let us know what you find."

The CS leader nodded, and he and his team got to work. Steve and Cheryl had just started to depart when there was a startled exclamation from one of the analysts, and they turned back. "What is it?" Steve asked.

The tech was holding what looked like a large chunk of chocolate rather gingerly as he examined it. "Hair and blood – the victim was hit with this." He glanced down at the candy-smeared body and grimaced. "Guess once we get this cleaned up, we'll be able to tell if it was the cause of death – "

"Or enough to knock him out so he could be – uh – packaged?" Steve questioned. "By a piece of chocolate?" He sounded doubtful.

The other man pulled a face. "Oh, yes. And not just any piece of chocolate. One's missing, but the other ear's still there."

Steve and Cheryl glanced around at the smiling foil rabbity faces lying about on the floor, then at each other, neither one wanting to express the thought aloud. The tech did it for them. "He was bludgeoned with a solid chocolate bunny." A pause, and then he remarked, "And they sell those to our kids." He shook his head and went back to his work, leaving the two detectives to make their exit, pensively considering the ramifications of potentially lethal Easter candy.


	2. Dangerous Chocolate

Steve glanced up from the pile of documents on his desk as Cheryl came into their office. From the look on her face, the folder she was holding was as unhelpful as the majority of papers he had been perusing. "Ragsdale's personnel file?"

She placed it with disturbing precision on top of his stack, then collapsed gracefully into his other chair, avoiding the equally useless pile on her own desk. "Yes. And a more innocuous individual probably doesn't exist, at least for our purposes."

He picked up the report, riffled through it, and came to the same conclusion. "So why Mr. Ragsdale? Or does someone have it in for the Easter Bunny?"

"Maybe we've got some type of major health food nut on our hands."

He blinked. Cheryl was usually the last to be critical of people who actually cared about the type of food they put inside them, and he would ordinarily have expected some biting comment about stuffing children full of sugary, non-nutritious candy. "Death by chocolate?"

She shook her head. "Not necessarily. You saw Amanda's report – death by asphyxiation. He was just knocked out with the chocolate bunny."

"And?" Steve asked, intrigued.

"And," Cheryl continued, mentally steeling herself for a sarcastic response to her theory, since she wasn't quite sure how she felt about it herself, "maybe it's got nothing to do with Ragsdale himself. He was just an unfortunate –"

"By-rabbit?"

She threatened him with a fist, and he threw up a hand in mock terror. "Okay, okay. Sorry. So you think it's something to do with – what, the chocolate?"

Cheryl nodded. "Look at the McDonald's lawsuits, all those idiots who thought the chain was responsible for the fact that they thought it was okay to make junk food a staple of their kids' diets. Maybe someone really, really has a problem with the concept of Easter candy."

Steve was about to respond when his phone rang, and he picked it up. "Sloan." His expression, startled at first, grew grim as he listened. "Okay, thanks. We'll be right there." He hung up and turned to his partner. "We've got another one – and he also works for Benson's as an Easter Bunny." He grinned at Cheryl. "Want to make a bet they're the connection?"

"Huh. Last time I took a sucker bet from you I ended up buying lunch at Bob's for a week. I'll take your word for it." She unfolded herself with her usual agility and slid on her sunglasses. "But I'll let you drive."

The newest scene had the same disturbing chaos as the first, its victim dispatched with similar violence and lavish smears of chocolate. There was one marked difference, however; in plain view was a large candy rabbit with a sizeable dent in its head, matching the dent in the victim's. Clearly the murderer had some reason for ensuring that the apparently perilous quality of the chocolate did not go unnoticed, Steve reflected, as Cheryl quietly voiced the same thought.

"If that's not a message of some kind, I'll go on foot patrol for a week."

Steve shook his head. "I don't think you're going to be doing that any time soon – I agree. I mean, after all, if you're going to suffocate your victim, why make an issue of how you knocked him out?"

"Has anyone taken a look at the candy?" Mark asked a few hours later, as they let their dinners settle. Steve had deliberately waited until after the meal was over before giving his father and Jesse a quick synopsis of his newest case, and the group was relaxing on the deck, watching the sunset. "After all, there must have been some reason for it being left in such a prominent place."

"CS has a sample or two to analyze," Steve replied. "And it turns out that Benson's may have had some idea that this could happen."

Horrified, Amanda exclaimed, "What do you mean, Steve?"

"Apparently," Cheryl commented, "Benson's got a call a few days before the first murder. Someone with an electronically altered voice told them to remove the bunnies from their shelves."

"Or?" Mark asked.

Steve looked disgusted. "Or, this mysterious someone apparently wasn't specific about that part of it. So the person who took the call didn't take it seriously – until now."

"So," Mark mused, "the question is why. Is there something wrong with the candy? Or are we dealing with an enraged competitor?"

"Possibly both. Benson's changed its contract fairly recently, from Fairweather's Finest to Choc-o-Fine. I couldn't get anyone to tell me why, but I did manage to get samples of both types of chocolate." Steve rose and retrieved the bag he had left in the kitchen. "Here you go, Jess. Interested in a little analysis?"

Jesse's eyes widened. "You think there's something in the candy, don't you."

Steve nodded. "I'm going to pursue the competition angle, but something tells me there's something else involved. Let me know what you find, okay?"


	3. Jesse Steps Up

Jesse blinked, scratched his head and stared again at the printout in his hand. There it was again – the Fairweather's Finest chocolate showed traces of an ingredient he had never seen before, and he had no idea what its purpose was. It wasn't illegal, as far as he could determine; at least nothing in the makeup of the chocolate gave any indication that anyone seeking any kind of chemical high would be even marginally successful. Flavor enhancement, maybe? Everything else looked harmless – cocoa, sugar, the usual sorts of innocent preservatives – and it certainly smelled good. He debated, then opted for the empirical approach. After all, a tiny smidgen of taste was unlikely to do him any significant damage. He broke off a tiny morsel, sniffed it, touched it to his tongue – and was immediately enraptured; it was all he could do to sample the piece slowly enough for caution. This stuff was wonderful. Why, he wondered, had Benson's changed its contract for the other candy when this chocolate was almost nothing short of divine?

The thought led him to contemplate the competition. The report on the Choc-o-Fine interloper was innocent enough, although there appeared to be more preservatives than truly necessary. Probably, Jesse thought with a touch of grim humor, what had contributed to the solidity and potentially hazardous nature of the candy. After all, if you could render someone unconscious with one of those bunnies – who knows what their contents could do to an ordinary stomach? With a sigh, he picked up one of the chunklets and followed his previous procedure. It certainly didn't have the same delicious aroma – and the taste fell far short of the other as well. He shook his head in puzzlement. What had Benson's been thinking? This candy was close to dreadful.

He returned his attention to the Fairweather's Finest, thinking hard. On a whim, he logged onto the Internet, and shortly afterward logged off, no more enlightened than before. According to the websites he had visited, there appeared to be no significant price difference between the two, so Benson's certainly hadn't been faced with any kind of economic decision. And Fairweather's seemed to be selling briskly enough elsewhere, so obviously there was no shortage of the stuff. What then?

That unusual addition kept niggling at him. His instinct told him this was the source of the controversy, but nothing in the remaining ingredients supported this theory. Okay, then, time to look at the problem from a different angle, Jesse told himself. Time to run the chemical through some serious analytical paces and see what it was made of.

A few hours later, Jesse stared at yet another printout. He had first run several different tests, finding little to support any intelligent conclusions. A chance look in a reflective surface had shown him red, tired, swollen eyes, and his semi-exhausted brain had made one of those serendipitous leaps of intuitive thinking which defy ordinary deductive logic. Swollen, he thought idly, the vics' eyes had been protruding from lack of air….why that method of murder…? Something to do with suffocation, not enough air….allergic reaction…? On impulse, he had starting running a series of drug/food interaction queries, comparing the unknown chemical's contents to a variety of medications, until the results were staring him in the face and unavoidable. But there they were; there was a more than fifty percent chance that anyone taking any of the new asthma drugs on the market could go into anaphylactic shock after eating more than half an ounce of that incredibly delectable chocolate. Obviously, Benson's had preferred not to play the odds, and had yanked the candy. Why they had replaced it with Choc-o-Fine, obviously, was a mystery; and why hadn't anyone at Benson's mentioned this to the police? For that matter, certainly the Fairweather's people would have been notified; wouldn't they have been willing to look into the matter? Jesse was positive that he had not seen any reports involving the chocolate; he was especially conscientious about staying abreast of any studies of that kind. Did the people at Fairweather's even know? Could they possibly be behind the grisly murders? He glanced over to his computer screen, where the kindly face of the Fairweather's CEO smiled out at the waiting world; the company had been delighting children with tasty candy for years.

No way, Jesse told himself, that guy couldn't possibly have anything to do with the murders. But he probably would be able to tell Jesse if his conclusions were on the money, and if the company was fixing the formula. He picked up his cell phone and punched Steve's number, only to get his voice mail. Well, Steve would pick it up shortly, Jesse decided, and he left his best friend a short message telling him what he was going to do, hoping Steve wouldn't fly off the handle as he usually did. By the time Steve was able to do anything about it, though, Jesse fully and overoptimistically expected to have the information he sought.


	4. Jesse Rushes In

Steve's reaction was every bit as violent as the young doctor had expected. "Dad, why the hell don't you put a leash on that boy?"

Mark shrugged. "Reminds me of someone else who doesn't always do as he's told." His flip tone sobered at the wild look in Steve's eyes. "Son – he did tell you where he was going. It should be simple enough to catch up to him."

"That's not the point," Steve grumbled, but his father's raised eyebrow discouraged further grousing, and he turned to leave. "Okay, okay. Do me a favor – tell Cheryl to –"

"To do what?" his partner's voice interrupted. Startled, she barely had time to greet Mark and say goodbye again as Steve grabbed her arm and started down the hall at close to a dead run. "What's going on?" she gasped as he slowed to a stop to wait for the elevator.

Steve brought her up to speed quickly and tersely. "So we need to extricate Jesse from whatever mess he's gotten himself into. I have a bad feeling about this." He slid a look at his partner's unexpectedly grim expression. "What?"

"Benson's third Easter Bunny bought it," Cheryl replied, unconsciously unaware of the unfortunate alliteration. "If Fairweather's is involved, Jesse's definitely in trouble." She punched up numbers on her cell phone once they were out of the elevator, calling for reinforcements, then followed her galloping partner to the car.

By the time they reached the address Jesse had left, it was getting late. Steve glared at the inoffensive office building, which, from the looks of the parking lot, was almost empty of workers. "There's his car," he remarked, and swung to park beside it, hoping his irritating friend would be there. The car was empty, however, and a cursory inspection showed no indication that Jesse had left them any type of message. He flung himself back into his own vehicle, his face thunderous. Wisely, Cheryl said nothing, waiting for him to speak first.

"We'll have to go in. Where the hell are – oh, there they are." His tone only slightly mollified by the opportune arrival of reinforcements, although his brow darkened somewhat at the sight of his father's car among them, Steve got out once more and began to detail his plan.

It was a good one, too, marred only by the total lack of Jesse's presence, as well as of any Fairweather's personnel, whatsoever. His irritation having maxed out into growing worry, Steve strode along the corridors, ending up eventually at the reception area to the Fairweather's executive suite of offices. One of the other officers looked up as he entered.

"Lieutenant? I think you'd better come over here."

There wasn't enough room for a body, but Steve's heart shoved its way into his mouth anyway as he hurried across the room, dreading what he might find. "What have you got?"

It was Jesse's cell phone, battery still holding its own, the voice mail button blinking valiantly. Steve picked it up in a gloved hand and hit the retrieve button.

"You have his code?" Cheryl inquired curiously.

Steve nodded. "We thought it might be a good idea in case of emergency. As it seems to have been." He pushed the button for the speaker, and they listened as a metallic voice emerged.

"Your friend is safe for now. But he won't be for long if you don't follow instructions."

Mark had materialized at his son's side. "Computer enhanced – like the one Benson's received, I imagine."

Steve nodded again, then froze as the voice continued. "I assume this is Lt. Sloan listening. Dr. Travis has been kind enough to provide me with your cellular phone number, so expect the next call from me on that." The message ended, and he jumped as his own phone rang almost immediately, the caller ID showing the number was blocked. How the hell --? He shoved the thought away and answered. "This is Sloan. Let him go."

The same voice as before. "When you have complied with my demands and not before."

He forced himself to remain calm. "Which are?"

"The removal of all of Choc-o-Fine's execrable excuses for chocolate from Benson's, by ten o'clock tonight."

Steve really couldn't contradict that particular point; his own sample of the stuff had led him to the same conclusion as Jesse as far as taste was concerned. "I can't allow Benson's to replace it with your chocolate until we know it's safe, you know that."

The metallic voice snorted. "I wouldn't expect you to. But one thing at a time. You will find a digital camera in the receptionist's desk, along with two disks. This camera has a remote feed – and don't even bother trying to track it down, I pay very well for very sophisticated equipment – and I will expect you to film all of your actions as you comply with my requirements."

All right, all right already, Steve thought. Just get to the point and tell me Jesse's okay. "Look, Mr. – I don't even know your name –"

Now there was a simulated laugh, horribly mutated by the computer program. "Why don't you call me the Bunny Man?"

Sheesh. The guy was not only insane, but his sense of humor left a lot to be desired. "Fine. Bunny Man it is. Now, you do realize I need to have some assurance Dr. Travis is all right before I do this."

"Of course." There was a rustling, then a scuffling, then Jesse's voice, somewhat breathless. "Steve, I'm okay. I was right, it's –" His voice broke off abruptly with a gasp, and the Bunny Man was back.

"He'd better still be all right," Steve growled into the phone.

The Bunny Man still seemed amused. "He is; he's only resting. He was trying to be overly talkative, and I'm afraid we can't have that." The voice hardened. "Now. Get the camera, turn it on, aim it first at yourself, then pan the room. Quickly, or I may feel the need to feed the doctor some chocolate."

Crap. He wasn't getting much room to operate. Resignedly, Steve retrieved the camera and obeyed. "That better, Bunny Man?"

"Much, thank you. Now. As I said, you have until ten o'clock tonight to have all of the Choc-o-Fine abomination removed from Benson's. Obviously, I'll require proof, so you should probably keep the camera handy. I'll check in with you periodically to reassure you as to Dr. Travis' health, which as obviously will remain adequate only as long as I continue to see results." The connection ended abruptly, and Steve swore, first under his breath, then out loud, and yet again even more loudly, until the total and utter silence in the room following his outburst caught his attention, and he flushed.

"Sorry." He turned to the officer in charge of the additional troops. "Sergeant, I'd like you to have your people continue to canvass this area, just in case there is anything, anything at all, which might give us some idea where they are."

A hand on his arm; it was Cheryl. "I take it we're headed to Benson's?"

Steve nodded, and included his father in his glance. "Dad, I have a feeling we may need your help – I'm not feeling very diplomatic at the moment, and we've got to convince Benson's to take that stuff down ASAP."

Mark gave his son's shoulder a squeeze, for confidence as much as from affection. "No problem, son. If they give me any trouble, I'll sic the Board of Health on them!"

It almost came to that, but the combination of Steve's set face, not to mention the left hand which kept twitching, uncomfortably near to his gun, and Mark's very real threats in the light of his obvious credentials, eventually did the trick. Bolstered by the small trickle of hope proffered by the Bunny Man's check-in calls, Steve did his best to ignore the taunting tone of the murderer's electronic voice, and continued doggedly to film the removal of every last bit of candy, not just the chocolate bunnies, supplied by Choc-o-Fine to Benson's, counting away the hours and minutes to the deadline. They finished with literally seconds to spare; now all that was left was to wait.


	5. Steve to the Rescue?

Steve blinked, roused from the endless circling of frustrated thoughts as his cell phone rang. It was the same computer-enhanced voice as before.

"Are the bunnies gone?"

"Yes," Steve growled. "Now release Dr. Travis."

A laugh made even more unpleasant by the distortion. "Not so fast. Take the surveillance camera and pan the Bunny Cottage one more time."

Steve obeyed. "Now what?"

"Keep the camera running. Back away from the display, leave the store, get into your car and drive. Camera stays on. You'll get directions in a few minutes. And you'd better not have company."

Steve shook his head at the waiting detectives and started to back out toward the front of the store. As he started to pass his perplexed partner, he raised an eyebrow and jerked his head to the side meaningfully, relaxing marginally as her brow cleared and she sidled around behind him, away from the cell phone, and got as close as she could, maintaining step with him.

"Lo-Jack's in place," she breathed into his ear. "We'll keep a discreet distance."

He nodded, wishing he could voice his feelings; there was a reassuring caress on the back on his neck, and she moved away from him, praying everything would turn out all right.

Once in his car, Steve settled the cell phone in its hands-free and panned the camera as well as possible one-handed, his body tense as he drove. The phone rang, and it was the kidnapper once again.

"Drive three miles, turn right, four point seven miles, turn left. That should take you about fifteen to twenty minutes. I'll be back."

The next set of instructions took Steve another ten miles away, with several turns, as he hoped fervently that Cheryl and the troops were staying abreast of his progress and tried not to think about his best friend's state of mind, or his own for that matter. Eventually, he drew up outside a row of warehouses.

"Get out of the car, take the disk out of the camera and leave it on the ground. Put the spare disk in and let me see you drive off the way you came."

Steve's gorge rose. "And my friend?" he asked obstinately.

"I'll let Dr. Travis go as soon as I see that you've reached the railroad tracks. Don't try anything foolish." The connection broke off abruptly, leaving Steve with few options. Angrily, he reached down, collected the spare disk, and obeyed his instructions, almost heaving a sigh of relief as he saw Cheryl's car approaching. He pulled to a stop, and, carefully controlling the movement of the camera, waved her to a stop.

Within minutes, he felt her touch his back, and the tension in his own lessened. "I'm going back on foot and make sure he lets Jesse go," he muttered softly, keeping the camera as far away from his body as possible. "Don't come in until backup gets here, okay?"

Her fingers brushed his skin as before, and he handed the camera to her carefully, then moved purposefully back down the road, staying out of the range of the camera which Cheryl was now wielding in his place. His route remained, unsurprisingly, empty of any other travelers, including the young doctor, and he was conscious of a growing, simmering, ugly rage by the time the warehouses hove into view. After careful examination of the various entries, he chose a doorway which was far enough from what looked like the main entrance but which still suggested reasonable access, and slipped inside, his anger increasing as his search continued.

He was just approaching one door when he heard a faint noise inside the room. His Glock at the ready, he pushed the door open slowly, only to discover Jesse, bound and gagged, lying on the floor. Steve made quick work of the restraints, and, as soon as a shaky Jesse, silent for once, was more or less on his feet, they headed for the door. The moment Steve was sure Jesse was able to walk steadily, he grabbed his friend's arm. "Jess, head down the road toward the railroad tracks; reinforcements are waiting."

Jesse stared at his partner. "And where are you going?" he hissed with understandable agitation.

"Someone's got to keep the Bunny Man from escaping," Steve said reasonably. "And I don't dare try to use my cell in here to call them now." He glanced at the phone in question. "As a matter of fact, take it and call Cheryl once you're clear, send them this way. I'll be all right."

Jesse contemplated the offering hand, then shook his head. "No. I can find them. If you run into any trouble, at least you'll have it. He's got a whole arsenal of those damn bunnies, and they hit harder than bricks." He rubbed his head, where an ugly bruise curled around from the left side to mottle his cheekbone and contributed to a magnificently black eye. "Be careful, Steve."

Steve nodded, watching as Jesse crept out of the building. Once he was sure the other man was safely away, he turned, moving back toward the interior in search of his prey, senses alert for any flying chunks of lousy chocolate. Unfortunately, one which still had a hand attached, apparently belonging to a figure which came leaping suddenly from the unlit gloom to his right, connected before Steve had a chance to react, and the darkness became complete.


	6. Killer Rabbit

The black in front of his eyelids slowly lightened to dark gray, and he became aware of a throbbing pain in his head; when he thought to reach up to touch it, his arms wouldn't move. Steve tried again to move recalcitrant hands, only to realize with shock that there was cold metal on his wrists, and they were secured behind him. An uncontrollable movement of revulsion provided further, equally unpleasant recognition that he was crouching, knees bent tight underneath him, the one which had been bothering him off and on now starting to clamor for attention, and – the material he was feeling beneath his hands belonged to his shoes, because his shackled wrists were also roped to his ankles. The images of the Bunny Man's previous victims flashed sickeningly through his mind; unless he was having a particularly repellent nightmare, he was trussed up in the same manner. He jerked again, partly reflexively and partly deliberately, and found that he was held upright by a series of webbed straps, which were connected to the large basket in which he was kneeling.

"Bunnies are supposed to sit up tall," a vaguely familiar voice remarked; after a moment of puzzled thought, Steve recognized the Bunny Man, minus his computer enhancement toy. He struggled with recalcitrant eyelids, eventually creaking them open to glare at his captor.

"Are you even more insane than we thought?" he growled. "Do you realize what happens to people who attack cops?"

The Bunny Man snorted. "Oh, like I wasn't looking at the chair anyway, after three executions?" He shook his head. "And I was trying to do some good in the world."

It was Steve's turn to sound disgusted. "How is slathering three innocent men in chocolate and plastic grass and suffocating them in cellophane doing good, anyway? You never have bothered to explain why it was so important to get rid of the chocolate – and, from what feels like a hell of a lump on my head, this other stuff doesn't appeal to me much either."

The Bunny Man looked surprised. "Your friend didn't tell you?"

Steve wasn't about to reveal what knowledge he had; he needed to keep this lunatic talking. "Tell me what? You kidnapped him, remember?"

The Bunny Man's look changed to chagrin. "Oh. I'd hoped he hadn't, but then I couldn't be sure." He shrugged. "I suppose I can tell you – it won't matter."

Steve tried to ignore the ominous tone. "So tell me."

"My company makes the chocolate which Benson's used to sell. They yanked it after they received an allegedly legitimate study saying that there were chemicals in it which might, might I say, cause allergic reactions in individuals taking certain asthma medications. The facts that the study was commissioned by my competition and never has been released to anyone other than Benson's were totally lost on them; they just took it off the shelves on the off chance, and golly gee, guess whose chocolate's being sold there now."

Steve stared at him in disbelief. "So you just went around killing off Easter Bunnies?"

"No," the other man snarled. "I told them we'd run a study, asked them to have an independent company do it, at least sell someone else's candy instead of those – those – never mind. They wouldn't listen, just thanked me politely, told me when we could fix the product to come back and we'd talk. So they're selling that flat, tasteless stuff, which as you may have noticed, is not exactly that safe either."

Steve winced, but said nothing. The Bunny Man stared at him challengingly for a moment, then continued. "So I had to do something more drastic. And the method seemed appropriate."

This was too much. "Murder is appropriate? You are definitely certifiable – but you're not going to get that option, buddy. There are more police on the way."

The Bunny Man shook his head. "Maybe not – but you're not going to live long enough to find out." He moved forward, a mass of mushy chocolate in one hand and green shredded stuff in the other. "I wish I'd known you were going to substitute for your friend – I'd have bought a bigger suit."

Steve glanced down, his eyes widening as he realized that the remnants of an obviously too-small rabbit suit covered part of his own clothing. Then he realized there was something furry brushing against his ear.

"The head and ears at least should fit," the lunatic holding the chocolate observed dispassionately. "Keep the chocolate where it should be." He shook his own head as Steve flinched back from the reaching hands, and reached into his belt with the less messy hand to pull out one of the replacement bunnies. Before Steve could dodge effectively, it swung and smacked the damaged side of his head, dazing him enough to preclude any effective resistance. He tried anyway, resulting in most of the chocolate being smeared all over his face, shreds of cellophane grass clinging to it, before his attacker succeeded in wrapping the long ears partly in and against his mouth and tying them securely behind his head. Panting with exertion, the Bunny Man retreated a step and contemplated his victim with annoyance, nursing a hand bloodied by Steve's teeth.

"Just for that, we're going to shrink the bag a bit."

Steve watched in horror, struggling against his restraints, his mind racing frantically. Where the hell were Cheryl and the cavalry? Had Jesse reached them safely? Had he overestimated his friend's recuperative abilities? Was Jesse lying unconscious by the side of the road, short of his goal? Was this really happening?

It was. Bunny Man had pulled the plastic coating the basket upwards, even now securing it loosely above Steve's head; then, confident that his victim's attention was solely on him, he deliberately reached lower and squeezed, loosened and squeezed the opening shut, effectively decreasing the size of the interior of the bag. The look of gratification on his face was obscene.

The hell with pride, Steve thought savagely, and fought harder to loosen his bonds. If he could get enough leeway to reach the bag, bash his head against it or something – his mental process was becoming confused, from fear or gradual loss of oxygen, he didn't know, and didn't want to spare the energy to figure it out. There really wasn't much air left; his throat was tightening, the fur in his mouth adding to the discomfort, his nose and eyes were burning, and his ears were starting to roar. Fear and hope were warring with each other in his jumbled brain, and fear was starting to win as the face of his enemy started to blur.

Suddenly the Bunny Man moved, darted off away from him, and there was a massive confusion of sound and movement punctuated by shouts. Then there were pale blobs hanging before him and exclamations of horror, just as the cellophane before him moved, tearing as a great silver edge slashed through it, precious air pouring in. But his abused nostrils could only absorb so much, and he started to cough, then choke as the stuff in his mouth threatened to strangle him, and the grayness hovered once more.

"Oh, my God. Steve, hang on, take it easy buddy, we're getting it off, you have to be patient for just a sec –" It was Jesse's voice, his ordinarily soothing bedside manner roughened by anxiety and guilt. "Steve, I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have left you – hang on, they're cutting the ears, you'll be free right away –"

Then his mouth was free, and he gasped, a deep whooping inhalation that managed to pull in just enough of the oxygen he craved before his outraged lungs and body reacted, the convulsive coughing shuddering through him. "J—Jessss –"

"Ssh. Don't try to talk yet." That was Cheryl, and his beleaguered senses started to calm as her quiet voice continued, words of no particular meaning other than the intent to ease his distress. He could feel her cool fingers at his abused wrists, scraped raw by his struggle for his life, and stroking the released fingers as the agony of tingling, rousing nerves swept through them. Then the remaining restraints were cut away, and he found himself swaying on paralyzed knees, bereft of any support to keep himself upright. He forced a ghost of a smile at his rescuers, started to speak, and collapsed as consciousness fled.


	7. I'll Skip the Chocolate This Year, Thank

Mark stared down at his son, who was sufficiently far along the road to recovery to complain that he was well enough to leave, and shook his head, albeit with affection. "No, Steve. You sustained a hairline skull fracture, and your right knee is still badly swollen. I'm not letting you out of here before tomorrow."

"I just want to go home," Steve repeated obstinately, a litany his long-suffering father had been hearing on a regular basis ever since Steve had joined the police force. He scowled as Mark shook his head again, and said petulantly, "If you're going to make me stay, the least you can do is tell me what happened. My recollection's a bit – foggy."

Mark sobered. Hearing Jesse's account had been bad enough; he wasn't sure he could have borne seeing his son as a part of the ghastly tableau. "Bunny Man was Harris Fairweather, the owner of Fairweather's Finest, the candy manufacturer who used to –"

"Supply Benson's," Steve finished. "He told me that – I just – I guess I was having a hard time believing that someone who makes candy could be so callous about it as well."

His father nodded. "Remember Jesse's theory about a chemical in the process interacting with certain asthma medications? Benson's discontinued his product after Fairweather refused to change the formula."

Steve grunted. "He left that little detail out; told me he asked them to have an independent study done, they wouldn't cooperate."

"Not according to the president of Benson's, who finally decided to tell us the whole story," Mark said grimly. "Anyway, they started buying from Choc-o-Fine, and Fairweather went off the deep end."

Steve looked skeptical. "So why didn't Benson's happen to mention this to us earlier? We might have located Fairweather a lot faster."

Mark sighed. "They were afraid that word might get out, and people would confuse the new candy with Fairweather's. Right before Easter, that would have been a pretty expensive proposition. Not," he added dryly, "that I can see having dead Easter Bunnies as being much less damaging." He noted with some satisfaction that his son's eyelids were starting to droop, and decided to make the rest of the story short and sweet. "It's academic now, I guess. Fairweather's dead, and you're not, and if you do as you're told maybe I'll let you go home tomorrow."

Steve twitched a hand, fighting off sleep. "Dead?"

"Apparently Jesse was right. Fairweather realized he had no way out when they found you and gulped down some of his own chocolate. His asthma and anaphylactic shock did the rest; the EMTs tried to revive him but he died in the ambulance from lack of oxygen."

Steve stirred, as if to say something, but gave up as the drowsiness won, his eyes closing, his chest moving in a natural rhythm. His father sat quietly, watching his son sleep, and breathe, reflecting in general about fate, irony, and the Easter Bunny.


End file.
